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DECEIQBER 19. 1953 ni3iIIX .

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Norman Melieliop (Editor Locomotive lxprue)

I d 't suppose it would be pos- sible T4,; find a toy shop. which. at Christmas-time. did not stock a few miniature railway engines. It is surprising how this machine. born very much in the yesterday, still ma its fascination for the young- ster of today.

in spite of competition by the super-.sonic plane, the racing car. or speed-boat. it is an undoubted fact that there are thousands of youngsters (QT all BIOS) Who find enjoyment in making, playing with, or watching railway trains.

Loolne The Part

Possibly this is because the mod- ern prototypes of George Stephen- son's Rocket has real "stage pres- ence." When compared with the "slinky" streamlined jets of the air, a modern locomotive sweeping round a curving stretch, with every '1-nuscle" working in unison. and a sonorous rhythmic exhaust hit- ting the air, spells power-looks the part, as it were, and certainly acts the part.

One could almost say it speaks the part. too; and. obviously. it is temperamental. Watch it when it starts away on a hill. It more with displeasure, with s. whirling kick- ing of its slipping wheels. and s hissing anger which has to be sppeased.

The railway engine has to be hurnoured, coaxed and occasionally flogged to do its turn. In short. it is nearer human understanding than most other machines in this are of mechanical miracles and. possibly. that is the gauge of its popularity.

Spells Romance

The old railway engine-builders were good. psychologists. They gave their locomotives names which captured the imagination. I drove once an engine called "Jingling Geordie". named after a character from one of Scottie novels. In fact. it was one of a clan of engines having names from those classical volumes, and. each name set the

mind wandering in the fields of romance. Modern locomotive designers,

carrying on the tradition, have given us Royal Scots. Stars. Kings. Castles and Merchant Navy's while nothing more appropriate than the Flying Scotsman could possibly be found for an engine which hustles, daily. between the capital cities of England and Scotland. The names of the crack trains of today con- stitute an important factor in the Christmas choice of a railway eng- ine by the modern boy.

Stimulat Imaglnadon

Another reason for the locomot- ive's wide appeal. is the mystery nf what happens on the footplate. So Dad buys Tommy a model train and both father and son let their imaginations roam as the engine circles the parlour floor. In im- agination, Dad is sweeping round the contours of the Scottish hills. on the coast of Devon. or rocketing down the East coast in control of Mallard. and Tommy feels that if he were at the controls. the 126 mph. world's record would soon be shattered.

Or both man and boy stand and watch the trains go by. Perhaps they have a favourite walk which takes them to a spot where. leaning over a bridge. they get a whiff of sulphur from s smokestsck, feel the earth trembling with the thunder of wheel on rail. and then listen to that diminishing song of triumph-"I know I could do it". "I knew I could do it"-as another hill is kicked behind by the iron horse.

Yes. it is all so "human" in its expression, its behaviour and its effort. this steam engine-but it is on the way out.

More Efficient. Economical Already. the Jet-locomotive

arrived. I am told it is simpler. more efficient and more economical.

I know little of how it works. Sup- erior intellects explain it some- thing like this: "Watch a child blowing up a toy balloon. Sud- denly. It the height of the 'blow'. the balloon slips out of his hand and the air inside escapee with a his as the balloon zig-zags like a snake in the air before fauing to the ground." So that's the principal on which the jet-locomotive works? it needs a lot of imagina- tion to couple that toy balloon to the shrieking drone which splits the air from the Jets we hear over- head. ' Then. there is the diesel, that internal-combustion engine so like its petrol brother that it makes little difference in my conception of things. But they are smart those designers; they know how the steam locomotive appeals. so cun- ningly they camouflage those rows of diesel cylinders under a stream- lined cover to look,like a. steam engine with a "nose" in front and fanciful lines drawn from nose to ml.

in the U.S.A.. whole railway systems have gone over to the diesel-electrics which turn dynamos to create the current which moves the wheels. Already most of the steam shunting "pugs" are being replaced in Britain by these boxes of machinery which work without a break for s. fortnight on end.

No Boom For Sentiment

Quite recently. a frieiid of mine rejoiced because. in Suuex. he dis- covered a single track stllltbeing worked by steam power in this air ghold of electric trains. "A welcome break in the streams of englneless carriages" is how he described his find. But while I sympathise with his nostalgia. I must admit that progress cannot be denied.

There is no longer any room for sentiment. Every exhaust from the steam locomotive is 9091.. waste. For every pound of coal voraclously swallowed. a few "ounces" of work results. and the price of coal these days really justifies the description "black diamonds."

While the locomotive of today is sentimentally understandable, the locomotive of tomorrow must be sensibly practical. This ' age which panders to our old senti- mentalitlee by disguising the form of new locomotivw. will soon pass away.

in the generations to come. there will emerge the man who has never seen a Gresley Pacific or a Brit- annia: and it is said that "what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over."

Ah! when that day dawns, we shall have gained perfection in land transport. But we shall have lost an institution which, through countless years, was an integral part of Christmas-the Joy of Dad and Tommy working their railroad on the parlour floor.

Copyright NIP

saavmo or noalvs nszan on or om cnarsmas cusroms

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of the customs that grew up around the Christmas festival in Merrie England. the serving oflthv boar's head was one of the most stirring. It endures to this day at Queen's college. Oxford. where the 50-pound tusked head-a lemon in its grinning laws-is borne in on a great silver dish. escorted by trumpeters and candle bearers.

In the olden days there was an appropriate chant, half carol and half ritual, that the gentlemen used to bellow at the moment the dish troubled the board:

Then set down the swiucyard. The foe to the vineyard,

Let Bacchus crown his fall.

Let this More head and mustl .1 Stand for pig. goose and custard. And so ye are welcome all.

There were tears in Holland in- wards the end of 1582. In order in reform the calendar. 10 days hsdtobedroppedfromthenor- ml 366. and the last 10 days of

hubecsmber .were cancelled. Thus.

there was no Christmas in Hol- land itliat year.

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POOR RECEPTION ' DED I0 g

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Steve asked.

(By Shirley Sargent) Steve rolled from the bed where Marge slept and started toward the living room. The glow of Christmas tree lights betrayed the children. Young Stevie-there was a boy for you-had one hand in

his stocking. Julie was whisper- ing, "00 on. see what's fr) it." only Paris, the tall, older one,was quite still.

Paris turned just as Steve said "Merry Christmas". sarcasticaliy.

Young Stevie. with the engaging Krill. Whipped around. ”Hi, daddy. Can we open our presents? It's s.lmoet'dayiight." , '

"Daylight. my foot-it's barely two."

"But Santa Claus has already been here."

"Bed." Steve commanded. Stevie and Julie hugged him. leaving without argument, but there was defiance plain on Psrisls face. Pat-darned fool name for a boy. M37365! idea. "Bod. son." Steve reiterated.

"Under the see arvything curved."

'1'.hs.t Paris. an odd one. An eleven-year -old kid wanting a trombone. It beat Steve. "I don't either," he agreed, meeting his son's eyes. "Look. you're too old to believe in Santa Claus. and too young to realize how expensive I trombone is."

Paris looked down at the mounds of gaily wrapped packages. "Okay." he said in a flat. old-sounding V0109: "-90 1 set a couple of new shirts and Stevie gets..." .

"Stevie gets what?"

Paris groluid his bare foot into the rug. "Nothin', I was jut talking."

”G00d Illlrht. son," Steve watch- ed Paris out of the room baton- he unplugged the tree lights amd sank into a worn armchair.

Paris was right. Elzvie had ev. GTYI-hint: he'd asked for piled under the tree. Even an electric train. Cost a lot to keep a kid happy these days. but e. trom.bon.e...Like the one out in the trunk of the car that was going back to the store M85 thins Wednesday momim. A man made only so much working in a. l.-ttltirlry. trying to save enough to buy a half interest. so Mas-ge went ahead and bought 3 :4-om. bone without a by-your-leave.

First Paris had to have lemons, then a rented horn to practice on Now he wanted one of his own, Paris. a funny kid. Never listening to the football games like Julie and even Stevie did. Always wan- dering off for hikes and bringing home strange. rassmutrtn kids.

tree. dad,- I don't long and sort of

"Look. rmI'n't.oo old to believe in Santa Claus".

Harm when he could tinker with all radios. happier yet when he could listen to high-brow music, That stuff. Steve didn't under- stand him and that was a (Me, From a distance he heard thg voices of csrolers snail. upstairs, "19 WEVBTIHK notes of the rented trombone. That Paris! What was he trying to do? Wake everybody

as Steve swung up the Willi. '0 the stile. he heard the sursness in the music. At first Paris had practiced in the attic by request. but Steve had to hand it to him. He had worked hard; two-three hours a day until he could, really play. Looking in on

ed instrument gleamcd. Paris had taken care of it-wouldn't let the others touch it.

To look at his intent, happy M69. you wouldn't know it was Paris whose everyday face was withdrawn. almost sullen. 'I'.hgL playing a horn that took all your breath to blow. would give him happiness was amazing to stave. Paris put the trombone down when Sieve touched his shoulder. "You love to play, don't you?"

A smile the like of which Steve

him now, Steve saw that the rant- '

THE. GUARDIAN, a

Walk After I Supper

-gym l P. G. Goodall

That windless, fozzy December night. only two days before Christ- mas, young Brian O'Rourke, to put off the dreaded moment, lingered over his supper. The fierce pride of the ten-year-old boy would not let him say he was terrified of what lay before him-a mile walk along the lonely beach to tend the Light-of-the-Perch.

Always before-thought Brian- Jimmy has been with me. Then I didn't mind so much. even when we passed the Danish Rath. It's a scary sort of place that big hump of dark earth where they buried those Danes. even if it was hund- reds and hundreds of years ago. I'm glad the Irish beat them... But Jimmy, his elder brother was in bed with feverish cold.

"What ails ye Brian?" demanded his mother. "Drink up that cocoa and be off with ye at once. 'Tis generally first y'are to finish your meals and here I've been waiting this last half hour to wash up. Is it sick ye are? T look pale.". Brian shook his head. thinking."

"Some nonsense of leprachauns and fairies I'm sure. What will happen to the poor sailors if the light goes out. or the glass of the lantern is blscke d with smoke? It's your uncle Johnny is as sea himself. too. don't forget."

"Shure he's in China!"

"China or the channel, 'tls the one thing. You're responsible for that light. and you'll see to it.

"Just

C'mon now. there's the matches and oil, and don't forget the scissors in case ye have to trim the wick."

"The ollcan needs filling." Des- parately Brluvmade the excuse to stay a little longer. But the time came when he had everything ready and he could think of no other reason for delay. and reluctantly he took to the road.

I As he set out he looked back at

the little group of houses. On drawn window-blinds lsmplight glowed redly. In there where folks talked and read. and listened to the radio, it was warm and safe and Christmassy. Slowly he turned and trudged along the beach. The fog thinned a little. Through it, the send-dunes loomed.

on the dunu, u dry bent-grass whispered. The tide was out, but in spite of the lack of wind. the sea hissed and grumbled at the bar. In a small pool left by the ebbing tide. a fish leaped. The sudden splash brought the heart of the boy jumping to his throat. There were sucking sounds, groans and the continuous "hush..huss- sh" of the sea.

The night had many weird voices that came from nowhere in particular. it had many weird forms. too; twisted things that loomed out of the fog and suddenly disappeared. Dwarfish figures moved njust too far off to be sure what they were. writhing shapes waved beseechlng arms and dissolved in the midst.

Spine prlckling. Brian halted.

.

Cl-TARIJOTTETOWN

What's that moving there! Breath held, he listened. Against his ribs his heart thumped. There-there 'tis again...something dark and tall but no sound of footsteps. Ah! there they are again..sllthery footsteps. It's him . . the fisherman ..I know 'ti.s. Run..run for your life. No use..dldn't he once fll' faster than Mike Rafferty and Mike pedalling his bike like fury and in the end the holy ground of the chapel yard saving him. He's slipped into the fog now but it's the cunning one he is..just wait- ing to jump out at me.

Slithery footsteps again! Sweat beading his face. Brian looked over his shoulder. Across the shingle an enormous crab sidied. Scrape. scrape, scrape went it's claws on the gravel. The fog lifted a trifle. Brian breathed once more. The tail shape that had scared him showed up as the half buried sternpost of a schooner, wrecked many winters past.

Brian strode into the fog. He be- gun to whistle; then to talk to himself.

"Show the old ghosts, I'm not afraid. My uncle Johnny's a cap-

tain and I'm going to see to the Light-of-the-Perch." Then he whistled again.

Suddenly, the defiant whistle

ceased. Just them the ribs of an-' other wreck stood dark as the skeleton of some monstrous ani- mal.

"Ah shure 't-is only an old wreck." growled Bi'ian...But is it?

swiftly he was reminded of that terrible night of storm when that barque broke her back on the bar. and crates. oaks and bits of her were tossed ashore. And the drowned men..the poor drowned sailors..didn't I see them all white and staring where they lay on the glisiery seaweed. '

The very smell of wet seaweed brought it all back to him, with the thought that maybe the fisher- man was not the only spirit who walked the beach at night... '

scarcely drawing breath, Brian crept past the remains of the' once proud barque. Nothing there: only the rustle of dry seaweed hung from the bsrnacle crusted timbers. Along the beach a curiew, cried mournfuily. seaward. a big. steamer grumbled her way through the fog. Closer inshore the shriilj siren of a small craft complained; to the mg 1.: echoed and re-echoed amongst i e dunes.

Brian quickened his pace, and talked again to himself for com- pany.

"I hope the Perch light hasn't gone out," he said. Through the fog showed the gap in the dunes where marshy slab-land oozed across the beach, and little muddy streams iwisird tn the sea. "The Danish ltath!" gasped Brian. and halted to listen.

"Yes. there they s.re..there's the tap-tap-tap of marching feet .. They're muttering."

He forced himself to go on. As he approached the sombre mound, the feet of Brian dragged. He thought: This is where the fierce men in winged helmets are seen fighting and drinking. Jimmy can leer at me if he likes..but I know better..it's them..the Danes. Haven't I with my own eyes seen their flickery blue fires that Jimmy says is just the gas from the marsh? I wish he were here now. What's that-that white thing

I

gliding by the Roth? There's an-.

other and another. It's the Danes! Run-Run before they get you. What. run towards that place?

I darcn't..I can't. They're watching me..'f know they are. See, they're together now.. talk- ing..wstching. I can't go on..I'il run back home. But the light on the Perth? There's that siren sge.in..cioser now. What would captain Johnny say if he knew the coward I, am? He'd never take me to sea like he promised. Sailors aren't scared!

Wild cries of disturbed swans goadlng him, gasping and sobbing. Brian ran-ran past the fearsome Rath until he was safe, for the ghostly warriors never left the gap in the dunes where disaster had overtaken them..ever5cne knew that.

The tide had turned and rushed to posses the land. With it came a breath of air that twisted the fog into white ropes. The snarling sea. with white talons tore at the bar. seaward. to the nor'ard now, the big steamer growled. but the shrill scream of the smaller vessel did not sound any more. Here it was ut- terly desolate. Even the sand dunes had gone, leaving on one side dreary marshland, and on the other, bleak beach: beyand stretch- ed the cold. restless sea. Aliund the face of Brian the fog wrapped dank fingers.

He shivered, for this was where the phantom fisherman was said to often walk. All about were groans, sighs and walls and R furtive whispering. Brian strained lo catch what was said. but

couldn't. somewhere ahead sounded a faint cry and crunch of feet on shingle. The heart of the boy seemed to pound within him.

"No mistaking that cry," be whispered. "No bird that. Even Jimmy would say so."

Feet dragging, Brian forced him- self to go on-Anwards towards the Light-of-the-Perch, gripping the can of oil more firmly. The light-the light-the light, beat in- side his head, and became mixed with the other weird sounds and that one thin cry. Suddenly. through the fog he saw the fuzzy blob of the light, and yes. it was flickery, and the glass of the lantern blackened with smoke. Ter- rified. he ran towards the Perch with its narrow ladder leading up to the lantern. At the foot of the ladder, he stumbled. halted and bent to tie the unfastened lace of his boot.

When he straightened. horror held him rigid. Before him oil- skius dripping, tired eyes mourn- iul under the shadow of his sou"- wester. stood a fisherman. The flame of the lamp leaped up, then went out. ..

"Would ye be tellin' me where there's a house, sou?" asked the fisherman. "I'm from Ax'kiou'. and

me mates are standing' by our boat-she's ashore about a mile beyant here."

Copyright: N.F.L.

(The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.)

CHRISTMAS CHOIR . . . . Junior membe of a church choir lift ,their voices in song during the ,annual Christmas candlelight ser-

ivlce. Truly, they 'represent. the spirit of Christmas. CHRISTMAS GAME Snstpdragon was I favtlrite

Cliristmas game in England more than 200 years ago, it is still play- ed in modified form in England and America.

The original game called for ) quantity of ratsins' to be deposited in a large bowl or dish. Brandy or some other spirit was poured over the fruit and ignited. The bystanders then endeavored to grasp a raisin, by plunging their

. hands

idragon," accompanied the game.

through the flames A carol. called "The Song of Snap-

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had never seen before closed his son's face. Then. shyly, "Mr, 3". tot wants me to play in the school